Apparently I needed less than four or five hours.
I woke on the terrace sofa. A warm desert breeze blew over, rustling the towering palms and yuccas. An occasional bird swooped across the villa grounds, chirping as it flew. We slept spooning. My left arm ran along her side then plunged at the elbow, draping over her abdomen, my hand burrowed between her right waist and the cushion. My right arm was sandwiched between the seat cushion and the side pillow where we rested our heads. I nuzzled my face into the back of her neck. I drew in her hearty feminine fragrance with each breath.
Realizing where I was and the state we were in, my cock reacted immediately. As I smelled her sweetness and felt her softness, my penis hardened, pressing into her left thigh. Though the strain of my cock pointing down along her leg started to become painful, I didn't want to move. She felt too warm, too smooth, too soft, too good. I also didn't want to disturb her. I pressed my body closer into hers.
Uncertain if it was my wriggling next to her, or my shaft pressing into her leg, or perhaps both, I felt her stir. She inhaled deeply, then let it out contently. Her lone movement, beyond her cresting and falling chest: she lifted her left leg. My straining cock slid along her thigh until it was freed, springing up and thudding against her Venus gates.
More comfortable, I began to drift again. In that dozing haze, I noticed the pressure of her thighs restricted the blood exiting my cock. Feeling my shaft captive against her still hot sweaty sex, knowing that her lips were locked in a lingering kiss along the top of my erection, only increased my blood's entrance. Feeding on the feel, I kissed her neck. I extricated my left hand and slid it up her body to her right breast, cupping it needingly. I was floatingly desirous. I didn't need to be inside her; enjoying her body in this way was enough.
My first bead of pre-cum must have rolled out and cascaded through the crease of her upper thigh. I felt a slicked fingertip feather along the ridge of my glans that was exposed between her legs and lips. The pad of her finger glided along cleft of my corona, then dove down along the underside until her rich thighs prevented her from proceeding. She reversed, her finger extracting more of my essence. She massaged the oil into my displayed cockhead. The feeling of her focused attention on the limited revealed surface area at the tip of my cock was piquant.
The scene began to unfold like a song. Her fingertip lilting on the head of my cock set the structure of the song, her movements sketching the melody. Next came the rhythm: with a steady beat, she flexed the cheeks of her ass, methodically gripping and releasing my cock as her hemispheres pressed into the front of my hips. The song pulsed on through time, making its way to its crescendo.
She remained focused on tracing little circles on the head of my cock. She never parted her legs. She did the opposite, in fact: the clenching of her thigh and butt muscles gave me a dull milking sensation. In sharp contrast, her fingertip danced only at the vortex where the two ridges of my corona yield to the thick trunk of my staff below my penis' egress. The care paid to the high concentration of nerves at that small point enflamed my cock, engorged my glans and swirled my mind. I curled my back and exhaled a ragged breath on her neck. I pressed my open mouth to her nape, pushing my teeth into her skin, not biting, but making her just aware of the edges of my incisors.
